


That name, which is no part of thee.

by amoama



Category: Nashville (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 00:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2408294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She'd not stopped to pack when she left. Surely, Deacon had everything she needed."</p>
<p>Rayna at 16.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That name, which is no part of thee.

**Author's Note:**

> Um, just to say, I went with James not Jaymes because the idea of Ray-Jay is SILLY. ;)
> 
> The title is Shakespeare - may as well steal from the best. 
> 
> There's not anything much to be worried about with the underage tag but Rayna is 16. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It's a cold night, the kind that gets into your bones and takes hold. She'd not stopped to pack when she left. Surely, Deacon had everything she needed. He's got an apartment, a guitar, freedom. Everything she’s been wanting. 

His wild, unregulated, life has been calling to her for months. She knows his life hasn't been easy: it's nothing he's told her, not yet, although sometimes it’s seemed like he's wanted to. It's just some lines in a song and the way he looks at her sometimes, covetous and sad, like even in his arms she's out of reach. It makes her want to tie herself to him, it makes her think of marriage even though she's only 16 and it's ridiculous. It makes her want to be 60 and in his arms, not underage and freezing. 

She's wrapped in both of his jackets and his bed sheets. She's wearing his gloves and big socks and a woolly hat she'd laughed at him for owning earlier in the year. He's playing guitar and throwing out a few words - the start of a lyric - and then pausing, waiting for her to finish each line. Her teeth chatter and her lips are probably blue but she gets a kiss for every lyric she comes up with. She likes this way of writing; it's a way to get to know each other, daring each other to ever more honesty. They've a bottle of Jack that's half gone. Deacon's pouring it into Dixie cups and prompting her to drink every time she shivers. It tastes harsh at the back of her throat, too strong for her, but it sure is helping with the cold. It's the same heat she gets from his smile, his head dipping in private amusement as he watches her grimace when she swallows. Flames flicker low inside her. 

He's only a year older but sometimes it feels like centuries. She's a kid who ran away from home tonight because Daddy doesn't want her playing music. Deacon's not like that. She's never known someone so completely solitary. He has a sister somewhere back in Mississippi but she doesn't know about any other family. He's an old soul and she likes that. He's as alone as she feels - as she's felt since her mother died. It's been years now but her world hasn't made sense since then. 

It's her Daddy's world: the country club, with the conversations that sound like nothing but are somehow full of silent negotiations and modes of leverage. The importance of appearances over reality. She hates all that. Her Moma had been her refuge, a little squeeze at the shoulder, a private eye roll that told her she didn't have to take it too seriously. She's been adrift without that. 

She's drawn to country music for its painful honesty, for staring your problems in the face and singing about them, making them public. She's probably drawn to Deacon the same way. His songs invite people in, to share in his loneliness, and then he's always surprised when people take him up on the offer. He invited her in, keeps doing it, slowly, wondrously, further and further. She'll keep going till he realises he's not alone anymore.

Before storming out, she hadn't thought about all the things she took for granted. The comforts of a life of wealth: warmth, food, endless supplies of clothes and shoes. Deacon has a record player but it's an old one that she lent him three weeks ago. It was her Moma's - she'd kept it hidden from her Daddy when he got bent on destroying all of her music. It had seemed like the right thing to let Deacon have it since she's started to hide out here more and more lately. He doesn't have a television set and none of the furniture matches. She's not noticed it any of the other times she's been here, visiting. It doesn't matter to her now but she might be here for a while – for good, even – and the cold reminds her that she's leaving behind something real: people, the only family she has left, and a future that could have been hers for the taking. It's like she can see that path she’s rejected becoming overgrown and disappearing from view. There isn't another path laid out for her, she'll have to clear her own road from here on out. She grits her teeth and smiles, pours herself another finger of booze. She shivers again – the feeling of life without a safety net. 

For the first time she understands that freedom and Deacon might not be enough for her. Getting away isn't enough of a victory, not a big enough statement. Her anger at her Daddy, at his rejection of everything she is, ripples through her, too big to hold onto. Defiance is a more active motivation than the wistful desire to live honestly. She doesn't just need to sing, she needs to be great at it. 

She can feel Deacon watching her, concerned as she huddles up under all the warmth he could muster for her. She turns her smile on him, reassuring, full of determination. 

"We gotta write a hit tonight," she tells him. 

He nods, catching her mood. She loves how seriously he takes her. His respect makes her feel stronger. It makes her believe she can forge something good out of all her confusion, out of the shabby tragedy of one more father unwilling to accept his daughter for who she is. She's young but she's got a voice and she's got this man here, playing chords on her heart strings. 

He strums and she sings and it feels right in a way she'd forgotten things could. Deacon’s voice swells low beneath her own, never trying to overtake her, just adding a deep and generous resonance that makes the song soar. Her throat catches as she senses her mother's blessing around her, living in the music; the brush of a kiss on her forehead, the ghost of a hand on her shoulder. She already knows she won’t sing as Rayna Wyatt because she won't give even one piece of her success to Lamar; but now she tastes her mother's maiden name on her tongue, she likes it: James. Rayna James. It feels like someone she could be. Someone she'd like to be. 

When they finish the song she takes the page and scribbles their names at the top, "by Deacon Claybourne and Rayna James."

"I like that," he tells her, smiling, "Like how good our names look side by side." 

He presses his lips to hers, more of a sealing of an agreement than a kiss. He pulls his hands through her hair, holding it back from her face, "Rayna James, nice to finally meet you." 

She leans in to claim another kiss, suffuses it with as much meaning as she can muster. She relishes the strength of his arms winding around her, drawing her into his warmth. She wishes for more, she always does when he touches her. She's on fire in his arms like nowhere else. He's always told her no before, insisted, "Ray, there's time" even as his hands ran over her clothes laying claim to her body. He's held her close and whispered that this is just the beginning of everything they're going to do together. It's one of the things that makes him seem so much older, the care he takes with her. It's intoxicating.

It'll happen though, soon, too. She's far beyond ready and she's sleeping next to him tonight, the whole night through. Cold or not she's going to wake up in his arms. They've already come close a time or two, and he wants her, badly. Sixteen is not too young to know that. 

She kisses him with intent, brooking no dissent as her lips track down his neck. She hears his answering groan, loves how his body responds to hers. He hoists her up and onto the bed. 

"Rayna," it sounds like blasphemy, half worship, half swear. She shivers at the heat of it. He settles them with his arms around her, under the coats. His body grinds down on hers, harsh at first and then relenting. She can see him struggling to bring himself under control and she bucks her hips a little to try and thwart his efforts. “Ray,” he breathes out one more time, his eyes closing and his teeth clenched tight together. She can see he’s trying to picture gory medical procedures or tax returns or something and she giggles a little, enjoying the way her body vibrates against his. Finally he trusts himself enough to settle himself beside her and he kisses her softly as they both calm down. She sets her mouth in disappointment and he laughs, his lips still on hers. 

"Go to sleep," he tells her, "I'll still be here in the morning for you to torment me." 

She rests her hand against his cheek, traces the line of his smile, wanting somehow to fix it in place. "I love you," she admits, not for the first time, but it feels truer now than before, "Thank you for taking me in."

He gives a little shrug, awkward-looking because he's lying down, tangled up with her. Another kiss; another searing look. By the time he says, "Love you too, Ray," it's unnecessary. She knows it. 

She runs their new song through in her head before she sleeps, letting their words settle into her being, making them true with her whole body. It's good; she knows that. And more, somehow, it’s perfect, because it holds this feeling of being on the brink of everything and it belongs wholly to them.


End file.
